The kitchen reeked of scorched bacon grease and cheap beer, the overhead light flickering from when Bowser had “accidentally” punched it last week. One clawed hand scratched at the thick bush of his red pubes, the other waved a half-eaten strip of bacon like a sceptre.

The King was hunched over the kitchen counter like he owned the whole damn room, his fat belly planted on the cool surface, claws drumming lazily against the laminate while he waited. Steam curled weakly from his nostrils as he yawned, wide enough to show every fang, before snapping his jaw shut with a grunt.

His red mane was a wild mess from sleep, chest hair flattened on one side where he had clearly drooled on himself during the nap he crawled out of earlier.

Rolling his shoulders with a crack of joints that sounded way too loud for a normal morning, he gazed to his side at the fridge door that was still slightly ajar from where he’d rummaged through it a few minutes ago. There was already a suspicious pile of demolished snack wrappers stacked beside his feet.

He ate the bit of bacon with a languid roll of his tongue against the meat, and scratched at his gut for a moment before he tilted his head toward the doorway as soon as he heard the common sound of creaking on the stairs.

“Mmmm… about time,” he muttered to himself with a small smile.

“Ahhhhh, so you decide to show,” he rumbled, voice booming around the kitchen as he finally saw Peter.

Bowser jabbed a thumb at his own chest. “This King—your King—has been up for hours at this point,” he boasted, even though his eyes still had sleep crust in the corners. ”Strategic planning. Battle readiness. Morning… uh… digestion.” He gave his gut a proud grope that made it jiggle and thud against the counter. He huffed a puff of smoke from his mouth.

“Running kingdoms takes discipline. Meanwhile you drag yourself in here like some half-dead slug.” He shook his head at them in theatrical disappointment, the way someone might when scolding a child who repeatedly lost their shoes.

He leaned forward, belly sliding another inch onto the counter, “Lazy,” he declared, claws biting little dents into the edge of the counter, before belching loud enough to rattle the windows, and slapped his gut with a meaty thwack, sending a ripple through the fat and stretch marks.

“You know, in my castle, anyone who slept in past Bowser’s patrol got their ass… burned out of bed. No naps. No ‘five more minutes.’ Just ‘get the hell up or get utterly roasted alive.’ Way more efficient than whatever weak little schedule you got going on here.”

A slow, smug grin tugged at his mouth as he looked Peter up and down, his chin lifting.

“Lucky for you, Bowser’s generous enough to set the standard around here. Just face it, roomie. I’m the one with the rigorous royal routine, and you’re the lazy little minion shuffling into the kitchen while your King’s already conquering breakfast.”

He nudged a crumpled wrapper with a claw, letting it fall dramatically to the floor. “Now hurry up and make something worthy of my superior sleep discipline before your King declares this whole kitchen an utter embarrassment of a failure.